Family Tensions

The demo tape was still spinning in Mom's battered cassette player when her hand came down hard on the stop button. The silence that filled our small apartment was deafening. I'd known this moment would come – had lived through a version of it before – but that didn't make it any easier.

"So this is why you've been coming home late," she said, her voice eerily calm. "This is why your grades are slipping in algebra." She held up a crumpled progress report I thought I'd successfully intercepted from the mail.

In my previous timeline, this confrontation had happened differently. I'd been caught sneaking out to battles, had denied everything until the evidence became overwhelming. This time, I'd tried to be more careful, more strategic. But some things, it seemed, were destined to happen regardless of timeline manipulation.

"Mom, this isn't just some hobby," I began, trying to keep my voice steady. "I've got a real shot here. We just recorded at Platinum Sound. Epic Records is interested—"

"Epic Records?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Do you know how many kids in the Bronx think they're going to be the next big thing? How many talented people I've watched throw their lives away chasing these dreams?"

I bit back my first response. In my other life, this argument had escalated into weeks of bitter silence. I had the advantage of knowing how this could play out – and how to potentially change it.

"I'm not throwing anything away," I said carefully. "My grades dropped because I was adjusting to a new schedule, but I can fix that. The studio sessions are on weekends. Rico makes sure—"

"Rico?" Her eyes narrowed. "That wannabe producer from the community center? He's filling your head with these fantasies?"

"He's helping me build something real," I countered. "We have a plan, Mom. This isn't just freestyle battles in the park anymore. We're doing this professionally."

She sank into her favorite armchair, the one with the carefully patched armrest. The sight hit me hard – in my previous life, I'd eventually bought her a house full of new furniture. But right now, all she saw were the bills piling up on the coffee table.

"Professional means money," she said finally. "Money we don't have. These studio sessions, these demos – where is it coming from?"

This was the tricky part. I'd been careful to keep my battle winnings separate, storing them at Rico's place. The money from my after-school stockroom job went straight to Mom for household expenses. "I've been saving," I said. "Everything's paid for."

"Saving?" She stood up, moving to the kitchen where she pulled out the tin can where we kept emergency cash. It was lighter than it should have been. "You mean borrowing. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

My heart sank. I had taken some money, intending to replace it after our next studio session. In my other timeline, I'd never touched the emergency fund. But Rico's plan needed funding, and I'd been so sure about the investment...

"I'll pay it back," I promised. "Double it, even. Mom, this music – it's not just noise. It's my future. Our future."

"Our future?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Our future was supposed to be you finishing school, getting a real education. Not..." she gestured at the tape player, "chasing fairy tales with street hustlers."

"Rico's not a hustler," I defended automatically, but I could see I was losing ground. "Mom, please. Just listen to the whole tape. This isn't amateur stuff. We're getting real interest from—"

"From people who want to exploit young kids with dreams," she cut in. "I've seen it before. Your cousin Marcus—"

"This isn't like Marcus," I interrupted, perhaps too sharply. In both timelines, Marcus had gotten caught up with a shady manager, lost everything. But I had future knowledge. I knew the pitfalls, the warning signs.

Mom went quiet, studying my face with the intensity that had always made lying to her impossible. "You're different lately," she said slowly. "Sometimes you talk like... like you're older than you are. Like you know things you shouldn't know."

For a moment, I almost told her everything. About the other timeline, about knowing how this could all play out. But that would only make things worse. Instead, I tried another approach.

"Remember when you used to sing in the church choir?" I asked softly. "How you said it made you feel like you were touching something bigger than yourself?"

She looked away, but I pressed on. "That's how this feels, Mom. But it's not just a feeling. We have a real plan, real opportunities. I'm not asking you to believe in the music business. Just believe in me."

The silence stretched between us, filled with the weight of two timelines' worth of hopes and fears. Finally, she picked up the progress report again. "You bring these grades up," she said. "Every single one. You show me you can handle both."

"I will," I promised quickly. "And the emergency fund—"

"Will be repaid. Every penny." Her voice was firm. "And I want to meet this Rico properly. Not just hello-goodbye at the community center. I want to know exactly what kind of 'plan' you two have."

It wasn't acceptance, not really. But it was an opening, more than I'd gotten in my previous life at this stage. "Thank you, Mom."

She shook her head, already turning toward the kitchen. "Don't thank me yet. You've got a lot to prove." She paused, then added quietly, "But at least this time you're being honest with me."

As I watched her begin preparing dinner – her way of processing difficult conversations – I felt the weight of both timelines pressing down on me. In one life, I'd achieved everything I'd dreamed of, but family tensions had taken years to heal. This time, I had a chance to build success without breaking what mattered most.

The demo tape sat silent in the player, but its potential echoed through our small apartment. Tomorrow, I'd start tutoring younger kids at the community center – extra cash to repay the emergency fund. Tonight, I had algebra homework to tackle. The path to success in this timeline would be different, but maybe, just maybe, it would be better.